


Sanctuary, Unexpected

by NonymeSwan



Series: Sanctuary [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Binding Spell/Geas, Explicit Consent, Gay Male Character, Genderfluid Character, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic, Slave Fic Trope, gender-nonconforming character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9783488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonymeSwan/pseuds/NonymeSwan
Summary: Everybody knew that Casey was a little bit psychic; it was what made him one of the most successful junk and antique dealers in the business. This time, however, he's gone right past 'psychic' and straight into the realm 'magic' when he manages to summon and enslave an elf with a Magical Book ...Unfortunately, Siomon hasn't exactly had an easy time of it lately, and he doesn't much care for wizards.The first thing he does is stick a sword through Casey's best friend and almost-brother (some would mockingly say,sister) Avery.The second thing he does is to capture Casey's heart.Casey's pretty sure the feeling isn't mutual, though. He stole Siomon from his home and enslaved him with a binding geas. How could Siomon ever forgive him for that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the -- very -- rough draft of a story I'm writing for the assorted ebook markets. I don't know if I'll get any feedback here, but I'd appreciate it. Should I continue this? Do you want to read more? 
> 
> Reviews are hugely encouraging and will definitely help me write faster!
> 
> I'm not too worried about the occasional typo. This is unbeta'd and there will be some. (If anyone wants to volunteer to beta I can return the favor.) I'm more concerned with what people think of the story in general.
> 
> I do intend this to be the first of a series. Each story in the series will have a fairy tale or common fiction trope as a theme. (This trope for the first one is Ye Olde Slave Fic, and wow is Siomon pissed about that geas!) The next story, most likely, will be a beauty and the beast theme ... and Avery is delighted to hear he's going to be the beauty!

The air was warm, and last night's rain had left puddles on the crumbling asphalt. Casey sat on the box truck's tailgate and exchanged his snow boots for a pair of old canvas sneakers. It had been snowing hard when they left Larkspur, but it was a bright and sunny morning in Phoenix, ninety minutes away.

"You about ready?" Avery said, grinning ear to ear, as he walked around the corner of the truck. Avery loved auctions, and this storage facility had two scheduled for today.

"Yep." Casey stood up, deposited his boots and his coat in the back of the box truck, and then shut and locked the door.

"How's your mojo?" Avery said. "Please tell me your mojo thinks this is a good day!"

"Dunno, I'll tell you when I see the units." Casey shrugged.

Avery nodded, then spotted a woman he recognized in the parking lot, and bounded off to greet her. They'd been doing storage unit auctions for years, and there were always regulars at the auctions. "Toni, girl!" he shouted. "How's the cold?"

Vaguely, he remembered she'd been miserably sick last week. It was just like Avery to recall something like that, however, and to ask.

"A lot better, thanks," she said, sounding a bit surprised.

Casey watched, smiling, as his friend commented on her bright red purse and matching shoes. She returned the compliments, and Avery turned around so that she could see the peacock printed on the back of his purple denim bolero jacket.

Avery was nothing if not flamboyant, and it only took the slightest hint of interest for him to start showing off. He was tall, thin, and was currently wearing not just the peacock jacket but a bright red woman's blouse, designer skinny jeans, and knee high furry zebra striped boots. His hair was a carefully styled and bright purple mane of normally unruly curls, which were tamed into submission with buckets of hair gel. The color of his hair matched his lipstick and fingernail polish.

A key chain with at least twenty keys, a glitter encrusted pepper spray bottle, a pocket knife, plus a stuffed animal the size of Casey's fist, dangled from Avery's hand as he talked with the woman. He waved his hands with animated enthusiasm, and the keys jingled and the pepper spray sparkled in the light.

Toni was grinning broadly. She seemed to like Avery, which pleased Casey. Casey was used to people having one of two reactions to his best friend: Either they adored him, or they reacted with absolute hatred. There seemed to be no middle ground. Fortunately, a surprising number absolutely loved Avery, because he was as kind, outgoing and charismatic as he was flamboyant, and his friends were fiercely protective of him.

"Casey," Avery said, brightly, as Casey approached, "Toni says there's a soda machine in the office! Want one?"

"Yeah, a diet whatever."

Avery promptly bounded off in quest of caffeine, and Casey grinned, watching him. Avery consumed more caffeine in a day than most people did in a month.

However, to his dismay, a guy in a dually pulled into the parking lot and shouted something crude. Avery spun around, walked backward, and blew him a kiss before disappearing into the building. The man's expression darkened. Casey tensed, hoping they wouldn't have trouble, but the man parked, slammed the door on his truck, and headed in the other direction.

"Your girlfriend's cute."

"Huh?" Casey turned back to the woman. Her words registered, and he gently corrected, "Oh, Avery uses male pronouns, and he's not my partner. He's just a good friend."

"Oh! Oh, sorry! I misunderstood." She blushed, and stammered a bit. "I just assumed ... he's so, uh... you two are always together. I'm sorry!"

"We're used to it. He's not really trying to pass as female, he just likes women's clothes. Anyway, he's like a little brother to me." Casey held his hand up above his head as he said 'little' in wry acknowledement of the fact that Avery might be younger, but he was four inches taller than Casey -- and Casey wasn't really short, at a solid six feet himself.

"Little brother?"

"Yeah, my dad worked for his dad -- my dad was his pilot." Casey didn't mention both their fathers had died together in a plane crash a decade ago, when Casey had been eighteen and Avery sixteen.

He added, "Avery's two years younger than I am. I've known him all his life. His dad encouraged us to hang out together -- his dad thought I was a good influence. I just thought Avery was a pretty cool kid."

"Good ... influence? Because he's gay and you're not?" She guessed.

Casey snorted. Avery had been cheerfully genderfluid and pansexual his entire life. However, Casey was used to confusing people about himself, and he heard the hesitance in her voice. He read as a straight jock to most people.

Even in the queer community, people often thought he was cis -- and Avery his trans-and-not-passing-very-well girlfriend -- until one or both of them corrected the assumption. Quite often, even after he tried to straighten assumptions about Avery and himself out, there were persistent contrary rumors.

He took pity on her and confirmed, "Oh, I'm gay. Avery's father didn't have an issue with that, for his son or for me, though I think he wanted him to be less, as he put it, queer, at least in public. Avery always got all kinds of crap at school from bullies and he didn't deserve it. He was a great kid -- but a lot of his classmates didn't think so and they tormented him."

She gave him an uncertain, look. However, before Casey could elaborate on Avery's father's enthusiastic approval of their friendship, and the number of times Casey had gone to friend's defense over the years, Avery came bounding back with a Dr. Pepper, a diet Coke, and a package of cookies. "Auction's starting in five minutes. You ready?"

"Let's go," Casey said, even as he snagged both the diet soda and the Dr. Pepper from Avery's hand and took a swig of the Dr. Pepper, entirely because he knew it would piss Avery off.

"Hey! Mine!" Avery grabbed the bottle back.

Casey reached for the cookies and Avery danced away, holding them possessively to his chest. Then he turned and ran towards the small crowd of bidders gathering in front of the first unit. Casey, grinning again at Avery's antics, followed.

When the storage unit staff opened the lock on the unit, it revealed a pile of battered furniture. Avery suddenly became all business.

"Nice furniture," Avery said, though his arms were folded and his mouth set into a thin line. The furniture visible in the storage unit had what he referred to as good bones, but it all needed refinishing. There were visible stains, scrapes, and large amounts of dirt. "Do you think that's a pool table in the back?"

"Last time we thought it was a pool table, it was just a quilt thrown over a full truckload of romance novels in storage bins," Casey said, with a scowl that matched Avery's. That fiasco was still fresh in his mind. "All of which smelled like cigarettes and mold, and we couldn't even donate them."

"Well, at least it doesn't look like a unit I'd expect a bunch of moldy old books from," Avery shook his head. "And that's the kind of blanket that you use for moving furniture. I think it's a pool table."

Casey listened, but most of his attention was on the storage unit itself. He was regretting leaving his jacket behind, too; though the sun had felt warm earlier it had now disappeared behind a cloud, and a stiff wind was blowing from behind him. Even Phoenix could be chilly in winter.

The visible furniture needed cleaning or refinishing, but it was all either beat-to-hell vintage or high end modern. Even imperfect, or refinished, it would sell quickly in the Junk Shop. He knew that Avery would repaint and/or repurpose most of it.

Still ... a gut feeling told him not to bid.

Avery suggested, "I say we bid up to a thousand. I really think that's a pool table."

"We've already got a pool table in the Junk Shop, and it's been there two months," Avery objected.

Casey, however, had a bad feeling about this one, and he'd learned to listen to his feelings long ago. He said, firmly, "No. Not this one."

"... Casey, you've got to be shitting me. That's the best unit we've seen in a month!" Avery objected.

"Last time I said 'no' and you bid on it anyway the unit contained six hundred pounds of modern Barbies." He lifted an eyebrow at Avery.

"We didn't lose money," Avery noted, a bit defensively, "and the Barbies did well on eBay."

"We didn't make significant money, either, and that's the goal." He hated being the bad guy, but he also didn't want to lose money or waste time with an unprofitable unit.

They exchanged looks, and for a moment, he feared Avery wouldn't listen. They were equal partners in the business, but Avery had expansive bank accounts and occasionally rebelled and bought stuff on his own. However, hard experience had pretty much taught Avery to listen when Casey spoke up. He always regretted it when they didn't.

"It's got a pool table," Avery insisted.

"Yeah, and we don't know what condition it's in, or if it's even really a pool table."

For a moment, he thought Avery would argue, but then Avery clapped a hand on Casey's shoulder. "Ah, well. Maybe the other unit will have a winning lottery ticket in it or something."

The woman he'd spoken to in the parking lot, Toni, won the auction. He hoped she did well. The auctioneer then led them to the next unit, which was equally big.

"Boxes," Casey said, frowning, when the door was rolled up. Boxes were a huge unknown, particularly when they filled the unit floor to ceiling ... and it was a big unit, ten feet deep and eight across. "I don't see anything but boxes."

Casey stood on his tiptoes, which, since he was already taller than his most people, gave him considerable height advantage over the rest of the crowd. Avery didn't even bother to stretch. The man's impressive height meant he could see over everyone else's heads with ease.

"All boxes," Avery agreed.

"Remember the newspapers?" Casey said, with a roll of his eyes. Avery had ignored Casey and bid on a unit he had a bad feeling about. Somebody had seen fit to store fifty years worth of newspapers in boxes, and they'd taken a total loss. Normally, they could make money by selling advertisements and clipped articles when they found a stash of old papers, but those newspapers had been flooded before being stored, and had been more mold than paper.

"Ewwww!" Avery said, with a exaggerated shudder.

Casey laughed, "Remember the smell?"

Avery made a gagging noise.

Casey threw his arm around Avery's shoulders. "Don't worry, I brought masks just in case."

"Thanks, thanks so much," Avery tried to shove his arm free, but he weighed half again what Avery did. "I'll do the next lot of stinky newpapers if you dispose of the next box of broken dildos."

"Ewwwwww!" He released Avery, and staggered away, hands raised up in comic horror. Then he suggested, "Hey, could you bedazzle dildos and sell them as art objects or something?"

"We actually agreed last time, if you recall, that whoever finds used sex toys is responsible for disposing of them," Avery said, with a roll of his eyes. "Just wear gloves. And you'd better not use your psychic gifts to avoid those boxes."

"I plead the fifth," Casey held both hands up.

Avery laughed. "It's not like you've never seen a dick before."

"Hey!" Casey objected, pretending to be scared. "You're telling everyone in earshot my deepest and darkest secrets."

Avery poked him in the ribs with two fingers, and making him flinch away. He was ticklish, which Avery knew very well. "You have no dark secrets. Nor any depth."

"True," he agreed, catching Avery's hands when the taller man tried to tickle him a second time. He pulled the Avery close, instead of letting him dart away, and looped an arm around his shoulders and held on tight, while grinning gleefully. Though shorter, Casey was a lot heavier, and Avery staggered under his weight.

Avery was thin and wiry, smelled of men's cologne, and his curly neon purple hair, stiff with gel and hair spray, brushed Casey's nose as they wrestled. He was careful to keep a grip on Avery's hands, because if he let go he knew he'd regret it. Avery wasn't ticklish and would defeat him in a tickle war in a heartbeat. This was the primary reason that Casey wasn't guaranteed to be the victor of their wrestling matches.

This time, however, Avery won when he licked Casey's wrist. Casey released him with a curse, and frantically wiped his arm on the leg of his jeans. "Fuck! Eww, Avery! Damnit!"

"What do you think of the unit, Ce-Ce?" Avery said, turning serious despite the pet name.

Casey promised himself he'd get revenge for the slobber later, and turned his attention back to the auction. And ... yes that little voice in his heart whispered. Yes, a very strong yes, the kind of yes that had led him to treasures and profit many times before. "Yeah, we bid on it."

"Five hundred?" Avery said, frowning. He didn't like units that were just boxes, because too often they turned out to be boxes of crap. They'd won plenty of storage units full of old clothes and mismatched dishes before, nevermind moldy newspapers.

"Go a thousand," Casey said, as the feel of that inner voice intensified. "Maybe more. It'll be worth it."

There was something about this unit that was different. His mojo was insisting they win this one.

In the end, they got the unit for $950, which wiped out their auction budget for the weekend. "Better be good," Avery said, as Casey paid the owner of the site. He unfolded the pocket knife on his key chain, then as soon as Casey handed over the cash he hurried to the unit.

Casey trailed behind Avery, watching them with a grin. The two of them made a good team, he thought. They'd been running the Junk Shop together for several years, and storage units were one source of the shop's merchandise. Part thrift store, part antique store, and part eBay business, it had turned from a hobby to a reasonably lucrative career. Casey needed the work, and his half of the income was modest, but enough to live on.

Avery didn't need the money, not with a trust fund larger than the income of some large corporations, but Avery loved fashion and design and the thrill of the hunt. He'd been collecting vintage clothing, neat antiques and cool junk since elementary school. For him, the Junk Shop represented a way to share his passion with the world.

In five years, Avery would get control of his trust, and they had much bigger plans then -- plans for treasure hunts and grand adventures all over the world. For now, however, the lawyers controlled the trust, and they doled out just enough every month for Avery to survive on if he was frugal. The income from the Junk Shop paid for any extras he wanted, and the occasional bit of travel to exotic locations.

Avery, always in the lead when they won a unit, grabbed the first box off the stack and efficiently cut the tape with a swipe of his box knife.

"Books," Avery announced, with a tone of disappointment. He set the first box on the ground, after he held up a couple rat-eared paperback novels. He opened another box. "And more books!"

Casey, walking closer, saw some that were obviously library remainders, some were missing their front covers, and a few looked like they'd been chewed on by a dog. He made a face. There was money in books if they were in good condition and were rare and desirable, but these were not.

"Alright," Avery said, clapping his hands together briskly. "Let's pull the trucks around and go through this stuff right here."

* * *

 

Junk Shop Enterprises had two vehicles: the a box truck and a beater of an old pickup. They backed both up to the unit, and began sorting the books.

Anything of no value was thrown in the pickup, for a quick trip to the recycling plant. This included books missing their covers or otherwise damaged, extremely outdated technical manuals, anything else they knew had zero value. As much as it pained Casey to throw a book away, they couldn't even donate some of them to charity, and they certainly weren't going to sell in the Junk Shop. He couldn't even give them away. At least they could be recycled.

A second group went into the box truck, neatly sorted into boxes labeled "donate to charity" "store stock" and "eBay." Certain books were best sold on eBay, and others would move better in the store. Long practice had taught them that it was most efficient to sort the stuff as they loaded it.

Casey was beginning to wonder if his mojo had actually failed him. The pickup was full and sagging on its springs with recyclable books, and a few dozen boxes made a small stack in the truck, but they didn't have any major finds yet. Then, Avery laughed aloud, and said, "Casey, now I know why you wanted this unit."

"What did you find?" He hopped down out of the back of the box truck and ducked into the shadowed interior of the storage unit. Avery, now grinning, had just lifted the lid off a large copy paper box full to the top with magazines.

"Look at all the porn!" Avery said, gleefully.

"So not my style," Casey objected, but he crouched down to look at the contents. The magazine on top featured a rather hairy male model, and it appeared to be from the 1970s.

"What, you don't like beefcake?" Avery teased.

Casey gave him a look, and then said mildly, "Not this kind."

"Well, we should do good on these on eBay," Avery said, picking one up. He flipped through it casually, then said, "Too much hair for my taste ... And ouch, I wouldn't want to put that thing ..." he tapped the relevant bit of proudly displayed anatomy on the photograph of an extremely well endowed man, "where the sun doesn't shine. That would hurt."

"That's gotta be photoshopped." Casey looked over his shoulder. "He's literally hung like a horse."

"Photoshop wasn't around when these were printed. Might be a composite image, though. Literal cut and paste, and a bit of airbrushing ..." Avery looked closer at the photo. "Dayum. If that thing is real, unless he's the biggest grower in the world, I'm not sure he could wear a pair of tight pants without showing off. If he tucked backwards it'd look like he had a tail ..."

Casey snorted a laugh and looked through the box of dirty magazines for a minute longer then, spotting a woman with a kid in tow walking up the aisle, he shut the box. Since the vintage porn was likely to be worth some money, he hefted it up onto his shoulder and loaded it into the box truck.

When he returned, Avery was wrestling an antique chest of drawers out of the back of the unit. He regarded it in surprise. It had, apparently, been buried under the boxes of books.

"Sixteenth century, I think," Avery said, excited. "Maybe early 17th. Worth, I dunno, fourteen or fifteen grand."

"Wow." Casey crouched down to look at it better. It had a dozen doors on the front, each with an ornate bronze lock. Cast bronze figures adorned every possible surface, each one unique. It had four angels for legs, each different. What wood was visible underneath the decorations was walnut, dark with age. The entire chest was in perfect condition and a complete surprise. They'd never found anything like it in a unit before.

Avery clapped him on the shoulder. "Good job, Casey. Your mojo wins again."

* * *

 

The Junk Shop was located in an an old industrial building in the small town of Larkspur, Arizona, on the main tourist drag. Casey backed the box truck up to the rear loading dock, and yawned sleepily. It had been a long drive up the hill from Phoenix, and all he really wanted to do was nap.

"Look at you," Avery said, in reaction to Casey's yawn, "you're home. I've got a twenty minute drive yet!"

"You can crash on my couch if you want," he offered, even as he walked to the back of the truck and tugged on the roll up door. Avery, who suffered from nightmares and sometimes just got lonely when he was between significant others, regularly slept over at Casey's apartment.

After the Junk Shop had been robbed a few years before, Casey had moved into an apartment on the third floor. It suited him to have a ten second walk to work. The rooms were a bit run down, but perfectly serviceable.

"Nah, you snore so loud I can hear you through the walls." Avery shook his head.

"I do not!"

"Do too!" He insisted, then stepped into the back of the truck, and said, "Let's get the chest inside. I'll feel better when it's locked up in the cage."

Inside, the shop smelled of Avery's favorite apple pie candles, with undertones of furniture polish, paint, old books, and age. Equal parts thrift, antique, and used book store, the shop held an incredibly eclectic mix of junk.

The back door off the loading dock led into the first floor workshop, and they carried the chest past a half-disassembled washing machine, a table covered in boxes of toy trains and tracks, past several tubs filled with Christmas decorations, and through a maze of racks of vintage theater costumes. Avery loved costumes; Casey appreciated the money they brought in on eBay.

If they could buy it cheap and sell it for a profit, they would.

On the far side of the room there was welded cage for the most valuable items, plus the shop's safe and assorted records. When they set the chest down, Avery unlocked the cage with his enormous key chain that included the pocket knife and the glitter-encrusted pepper spray. The cage was big enough for both of them to fit, with room to spare.

Casey ducked back out then returned with a large bucket of antique keys in one hand.

"Think we'll get lucky?" Avery asked, as he set helped Casey lift the bucket up to the cage's single desk. It was full, and quite heavy.

"With a key, or with the contents of the chest? I think I felt something sliding around inside when we picked it up." Casey patted the chest.

"With either." Avery asked, as Casey picked through the key. His fingers touched a likely looking key, and he picked it up and held it out to the taller man. "Try this one."

"I really need to take you to the casino," Avery said, when the key worked on the first try.

"Aw, you know they banned me." Casey's grin was echoed by Avery's. He had, for a time, made quite a bit of money that way. It had been enough to pay for his share of the Shop outright a few years before. Avery's half was a mortgage, which they planned to pay off when Avery got control of his trust. "What's in that top drawer?"

Avery pulled the drawer open, and lifted out a cloth-wrapped bundle. "Oh, will you look at that. It's a book."

"An old one," Casey said, gently taking it from his hands. Now that he saw it, the book drew him. He brushed his fingers over the cover, which was fine, soft leather. Colored parchment was inset in small windows cut in the cover, and when he opened it, the room's light streamed through, creating the effect of stained glass. The design appeared to be a coat of arms.

Inside, the pages were parchment, hand written, and illustrated. At first, he thought the language was foreign, but then when he looked closer, the words snapped into focus. He glanced back at the cover. The title was the Book of Need.

Gently, wary of accidentally damaging what was clearly a centuries old manuscript in near perfect condition, but deeply curious, he turned the pages.

"Spells," he said, bemused at the contents. "It's a damn book of spells. We found a Magickal Book."

"Stop fucking around," Avery said. "How would you even know?"

"Because it says so. Look -- right here. ' To Treat The Devil's Temptation, create a poultice of betony, tansy, feverfew, and fennel, and lupin, and apply to the affliction while chanting, God in your name ...'"

Avery started laughing. "That's what it says, huh?"

"Sure." He carefully turned the pages. "And this one -- to summon a Servant Of The Fair Folk ..." he paused, looked up at the sound of Avery's laughter, then turned back to book's the introduction.

Someone had written in the margin on the first page, "Beware the unintended consequences."

Avery shook his head in disbelief. "You're shitting me. You can't read that. It's in Russian or Arabic or something."

He looked at his friend, thinking that Avery was either yanking his chain, or he needed to put his much-hated glasses on. Probably the latter; Avery wore them when he had to read, but avoided them otherwise. Casey had spent what felt like half his childhood helping Avery find his glasses before school.

"Seriously? It's a bit ornate, but I can read it. You're the one who likes to screw with people, not me!"

"Yeah, right," Avery tried to take the book from him.

Casey stepped back, then turned to the desk, and set it down. It was so old, and so pristine, that he didn't want to risk damaging it at all. It had to be worth a fortune. He turned another page. "A binding spell," he read, "to lay a geas upon the Fair Folk," and another, "to drive beetles from one's garden ..."

Huh. The Junk Shop had a flower bed out front, and in the summer months, it was always infested with giant beetles.

"Seriously," Avery said. He pulled his glasses out of his back pocket and put them on. He peered at the script, then said, "You're funny, Casey. I'm not sure what language that's written in. I don't recognize it. It's not any script I'm familiar with."

Casey snorted. "Oh, I can read it ... watch, I'm going to summon a Servant of the Fair Folk."

He turned back to that page, and for just a moment the letters wavered in front of him. He blinked, and decided it had been a long day, but when he touched a finger to the page, it again came into focus. In a dramatic voice, he read the spell aloud:

"Oh glorious knight, oh brave warrior, swift and strong and free, I call to thee, come to me ... thou shalt be mine, to do as I say, as I wish, and to act in my interest, forever and a day ..."

The words flowed easily from his lips. Something about the rhyme was odd; overlaid over his own words, there was a strange, lyrical language. It almost felt as if he was speaking that language ...

... and then the spell was done, and there was a thunderous crack and a gust of wind, and an angry shout in a language he didn't understand.

"WHATTHEFUCK!" Avery scrambled backwards, knocking Casey over. He hit the ground, and didn't quite see what had happened, but Avery was screaming. The door of the cage banged open, and Avery shouted, "Out, out, out!"

Only after the door banged shut again did he get a chance to sit up and turn around and see the source of their panic.

A man. A man who hadn't been there a moment ago. A small man, with long platinum blond hair, and wearing chain mail. He was struggling to stand up, eyes somewhat unfocused, and movements uncoordinated. He was soaking wet, covered in mud, and breathing hard.

He smelled bad, of body odor and general filth.

"What the fuck?" Avery demanded again.

The man struggled to his feet, and Casey belatedly realized he had a sword in his hand. Wet blond hair streamed down the sharp planes of his face, and he brushed it back with a swift gesture of his free hand. Startlingly blue eyes fixed on Casey. Suddenly, the swordsman was completely alert and focused.

He said something, in that fluid and liquid language.

Casey realized that the swordsman was between him and the door. He scrambled to his feet, then found himself with the point of a sword aimed at his throat. He gasped, and held his hands up, terrified.

A thin stream of liquid arced across the room and hit the swordsman in the face. He jerked backwards, free hand clapping over his eyes, and Casey reached behind him, grabbed the first thing that came to hand --the bucket of keys -- and swung it by the handle at the swordsman. The man jerked the sword up, and keys went flying, but so did the sword. The man, off balance, unable to see, stumbled backwards, tripped, and went down.

The man screamed in rage and pain, and suddenly the words he spoke were understandable. "Damn you, damn you, damn you to the nine gods!"

The man scooped his sword up off the ground and lunged for the door -- and then Avery was there, swinging a chair with determination and a screeching battle cry. The chair splintered, and the man swore again, and when Avery tried to hit him with the broken remnants of the chair's back, he skewered Avery with the sword.

"STOP!" Casey screamed, in desperation.

The man skidded to a stop. Avery stumbled backwards, and to Casey's horror, he saw him slide off the sword, which had gone completely through his stomach. Avery clapped one hand over the wound, then swung the back of the chair with stunning force at the elf.

The remnants of the chair exploded into kindling. The elf hit the ground and stayed down. He hadn't even ducked, as far as Casey could tell -- not that Casey was really worried about him at the moment.

"Avery! Avery, no!" Casey grabbed Avery, who was still standing, and shoved him towards the door. "Damnit! No!"

Avery was the one who bent over, grabbed the sword as they passed it, and kicked the door shut. Quite calmly, he handed the sword to Casey, then clicked the padlock shut with one hand -- the other was pressed to his gut. In a tone that sounded far too natural, Avery said, "You should call 911."

"Avery -- shit, man!" Avery's words jarred Casey back to reality. Avery had just been run through with a sword. How was he even still standing?

He realized that blood was seeping out around Avery's fingers, and staining his bright red blouse a darker red.

Behind them, the elf struggled to his feet. Casey ignored him, and ducked under Avery's arm when his best friend swayed on his feet. He manhandled Avery through the set of double doors that led to the Junk Shop's sales floor. There, they startled couple random customers and the Saturday cashier.

The cashier -- heavily tattooed woman named Shana -- took one look at the blood and grabbed for the shop's phone. Casey heard her call 911, and turned his full attention then to Avery.

Avery was looking pale, now, and blood flecked his lips. He hiccupped, then said, "Call my mom, will you?" and sagged to the ground.

Shana, call completed, vaulted over the counter and demanded, "What happened?"

Casey had no idea what to say.

He'd summoned an elf.

The elf had run Avery through with a sword.

How to explain that? How to explain a very-much-not-human man locked in the cage in the back room?

"Get his legs. Lift them up." Shana barked. She grabbed a random t-shirt off one of the nearby racks of second hand clothing, and pressed it to the wound.

Casey stood there. He'd heard Shana's words. They made sense. He couldn't make himself move.

Avery focused on Casey and then said, "Hurts." And then his eyes shifted to Shana and he said, "I fell on the sword. Tripped."

"Yeah, yeah, he tripped. He tripped!" Casey stammered, and then, as if the lie galvanized him into action, he scrambled to help. Pick his feet up, Shana had said. Awkwardly, he bent down and lifted them up. This caused Avery to groan in pain, and twist on the ground.

"Lie still," Shana said. "Help's coming. Lie still."

Avery's feet were heavy. He had big feet to match his height, and under the zebra striped fake fur he had on men's combat boots -- he could rarely find women's shoes in his size that were affordable, so he often hid men's shoes under fake fur or bedazzled them with glitter and fabirc paint. His size fourteen feet, the same feet that he'd often shoved stinky and sweaty in Casey's face, or tickled him with, or propped on Casey's kitchen table, just to be obnoxious, were now heavy in Casey's hands.

Avery mumbled something too low for Casey to hear. Blood was soaking the t-shirt in Shana's hands. Somebody else -- a customer -- identified themselves as a nurse and jumped in, taking his pulse.

"Anyone know her HIV status?" The nurse demanded.

"Fuck you!" Casey snarled, reflexively. People always assumed the worst of Avery, who not only got himself tested but insisted it of all of his partners, with conscientious stubborness.

"He was clean as of last month," Shana said, then added, when the nurse gave her a look, "He. He was lecturing me about my new guy. Showed me his lab results. Told me both of us needed to get tested!"

The nurse was talking to Avery, now, though. "Hon, stay with us. C'mon, look at me."

Avery was looking at Casey, though. He whispered, "Take care of my mother ..."

"You take care of her!" Casey snapped.

But the light suddenly faded from Avery's blue eyes. It was the only way to describe it; they went flat and empty, staring ahead at nothing. Death, Casey recognized, and he cried out, "Avery! Avery, no!"

A world without Avery in it would be less. Avery was his best friend, his heart, half his world, a brother in all but name. He'd known Avery since they'd both been in diapers. His earliest memories were of Avery. He couldn't imagine a world without Avery in it.

No! He thought, then didn't realize he'd shouted it until the nurse snarled something at another bystander to get him out of the room, and started CPR. The man -- he recognized a regular customer named Derek -- physically hustled him outside. He sobbed. The man hugged him. He tried to twist away, to run back inside, but the other man was stronger.

He stood there, and he didn't realize he was crying until a police officer offered him a tissue.

Where was the ambulance? Three sheriff's department cruisers had appeared, but no ambulance.

And there it was, roaring into the parking lot with lights and sirens.

He stood there, fist in his mouth, tissue clenched forgotten in his fingers, as the paramedics ran inside. Moments later, the cops were in the middle of the highway, stopping traffic. He heard the whump-whump-whump of a chopper. At a run, bagging him as they did, the paramedics emerged from the Junk Shop's front door, rattled across the parking lot, bumped over the curb, and loaded him into the chopper. It launched in moments.

He sank to the knees.

He'd seen the light go out of Avery's eyes.

How could they possibly save him?


	2. Chapter 2

  
"Where did it happen?" The cop was a woman: big, burly, probably ex-military, with hair back in a braid and a no-nonsense attitude.

He needed to lie. Casey knew that, above all else, he needed to hide what had really happened.

He shook his head, and opted for the simplest answer. "I don't know. I heard a crash. Found him holding the sword."

"Where?"

"Back room," he said, then froze. The elf was back there. They'd find him. The truth would come out.

Oh, hell. What did it matter? He'd summoned an elf, and the elf had killed Avery, and he deserved to be in trouble for it. The cops would just have to deal with the truth.

He indicated the double doors leading back to the work room.

The cop, and her partner -- a skinny blond man, older, with brown eyes and weatherbeaten features -- entered first, with apparent caution. Then they summoned him with a wave.

The cage was empty. He didn't know if he should be relieved or alarmed. He didn't see the elf anywhere.

"Where did you keep the swords?"

"I don't know where it was." Casey looked around the room. Somehow, in all the panic, they'd tipped over the table previously covered in toy trains. He hadn't even noticed. Trains and track were scattered across the floor.

The cops walked over, and frowned at the mess. The woman said, "Did you and your, uh ..."

"Partner," he said, absently.

"Your girlfriend?" The man frowned sharply.

"Huh? Oh, no, not that kind of partner. Business partners. And Avery uses male pronouns. He's just ... a bit unique."

Sometimes, he thought they just needed to print up cards explaining Avery's gender identity. Avery didn't actually mind being called by female pronouns, though they both corrected the error when they heard it to avoid general confusion from acquaintances. Casey bristled a lot more at the sort of person who thought Avery was trying to pass as female, and insisted on calling him male -- or "it" sometimes -- though Avery just shrugged and ignored that kind of insult.

Both of the cops were too professional to say anything unpleasant, at least to his face. However, the woman asked, "Yeah? How'd you two end up going into business together?"

"We grew up together. He's the little brother I always wanted." Casey wiped at his eyes. He needed to be strong, he told himself.

"Must be hard, working with someone like that," the man said.

Casey bristled. "What do you mean?"

"Doesn't his ... behavior ... make your job harder? As his partner?"

"No." Casey said, voice flat. "It doesn't. Shit, he works harder than I do, and puts in longer hours, and he's better at selling crap than I'll ever be. And he's my best friend."

The cop held his hands up defensively. "Just saying. He likes guys?"

Casey snorted. "He likes everyone."

"He ever hit on you?" The man asked.

"... he's like my brother." Casey stared at the officer. "You got a brother? Would you hit on your brother? Ew, man."

The cop shrugged. "Just asking. Some people might get upset."

The female cop put a hand on his arm. "We just have to ask those kinds of questions. Do you have a wife, or someone we can call?"

"I'm gay. And no, I don't have a ..." he let irony tinge his voice. "... partner. Not right now."

The male cop seized on that. "What happened? They have problems with your friend?"

"Huh? No. Just didn't work out."

"Avery ever create problems with your friends?"

"Not like that." Wise now to the man's game, Casey shot him a flat look. "Avery is a peacemaker, not a fighter."

"So if you're both gay, you never had conflict over a lover? Doesn't that get awkward?" The man said, eyes narrowing.

"You ever fight with your best friend over a girl?" Casey shot back. The cop was trying to find motive for Casey to have stabbed Avery, and he was infuriated by it. "We respect each other. We don't poach. Anyway, Avery'll tell you he's pan, but he usually goes for girls. Once in a long while he has a boyfriend, but usually it's girls. And his guys aren't my type."

He could see the skepticism in their faces. Most people assumed that Avery was flaming gay, without the slightest bit of interest in women. Many people didn't see what appeal Avery would have for a woman either, though Avery never seemed to have trouble finding dates. He just flirted shamelessly with everyone until he found people willing to do more than just flirt back.

"You've got a type?" The female cop asked.

"Yeah. First two qualifications? Not my brother. And not his lovers, because that's rude." Casey, thoroughly angry now, said, "If you don't mind, can I go? I need to call Avery's mother, and then head to the hospital."

Where Avery was likely dead. He'd seen the light go out of his eyes ...

He wondered, briefly, where the elf had gone. He'd almost managed to convince himself that Avery had tripped and fallen on the sword,

After twenty minutes more of questioning, the cops let him go. At least their line of suspicion shifted from him to anyone who might have wanted to hurt Avery.

He didn't know of anyone personally out to get Avery, and said so. "Avery makes a point of making friends, not enemies, but that doesn't mean some asshole wouldn't hurt him just because of who he is, though. It's not like that never happens! But he said he fell, and he'd have told me if anyone had hurt him!"

Except somebody had hurt him. The cage was empty. Where was the elf?

Once they released him, he grabbed his cell phone, got Avery's mother's voice mail, and left a terse message to call back. Heavens knew when that would be; she wasn't exactly known for being reliable.

Shana intercepted him on the way to the truck. "I got all the customers out and I locked up." She held Avery's keys up; apparently, they'd been dropped on the floor. "I'll drive."

"Uh, I can ..."

"No, you can't." She said, sternly. "Get in the truck. I'll drive."

* * *

 

He expected the worst.

He rode in silence to the trauma center, all the way back down in Phoenix, with his eyes closed, throat tight, thinking of Avery. Avery, his best friend, his almost-brother, the goofball of a fashion queen who'd been a part of his life since his earliest memories.

He knew they wouldn't speak to him at the hospital unless he identified himself as family. He said, "I'm his brother," which was almost not a lie, and the nurse's eyes softened with sympathy.

He expected to hear the worst.

Instead, she said, "He's in surgery."

Which ... wasn't dead. He was surprised. Shocked, even.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to hope. He'd sat in a hospital like this after the crash, waiting for almost three hours before they told them that both their fathers were dead -- and had been on impact. He still didn't know why it had taken so long.

Shana, at his elbow, asked, "How is he?"

The nurse couldn't tell them. He didn't think that was good.

They sat in the waiting room for hours. A chaplain brought them coffee and tried to talk; Shana said something, and the man went away.

Sometime around dusk, Avery's mother showed up, trailing a cloud of expensive perfume and with her mascara streaking down her face. He hadn't been able to reach her by phone, but apparently the police had finally found her. She was tall and thin, elegant, and almost always poised and perfect. It was the first time he'd seen her cry since her husband's death.

"Annette," he said, holding his arms open. She launched into them with cry. She was bony, old enough to be his grandmother -- Avery had been a late-life baby -- and she clung to him for a long moment.

"I'm glad you're here," she told him, finally, letting go. "Have you heard anything?"

"No."

"Who's this?" She turned her attention to Shana.

"She works for us. She gave me a ride." Casey scrubbed at his face with his hands. He was crying again, damnit. "I told them I'm Avery's brother."

"Good." She said this firmly, approvingly. "You are."

They shared watery smiles, and he hugged her again, and then they sat in the uncomfortable chairs, listening to the too-loud TV and flipping through battered magazines. Shana fetched coffee, and then sandwiches. Annette disappeared into the bathroom and returned minus her mascara. Time dragged on.

A doctor appeared. He stood up. Annette remained seated, looking up. She whispered, "How is he?"

"... Alive." The doctor said. He pulled a chair away from the wall, straddled it backwards, and looked at them through tired eyes. "I'm honestly amazed by that. He's a tough man."

"He quit breathing," Casey said. "I know that's bad."

"Yeah." The doctor agreed. "The knife ..."

"Sword," Casey said, then bit his lip. He didn't mean to interrupt.

"Big ass knife, then. The knife punctured his lung, and nicked an artery, and his chest filled up with blood and air and the lung collapsed. I'll tell you, I think I've only seen one or two guys with wounds like that survive to reach the operating room, much less live to tell about it."

"He's going to be okay, then?" Casey couldn't believe it. He'd assumed the worst.

"The next few days will tell ... but I think so." The doctor smiled.

Casey burst into tears.

* * *

 

After a few more hours, he and Annette were allowed back to see Avery, for a few minutes.

He was pale, thin, and looked nothing like himself. His purple curls were a wild and tangled riot beneath the straps of the ventilator's mask. His eyes were closed. The machinery was noisy, but his chest was rising regularly and his heartbeat traced a steady pattern of jagged lines on a monitor.

"He's sedated," the nurse explained, even as Avery's mother caught his hand between two of hers, and Casey stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. "And lots of pain meds. He's not really conscious, but I'm sure he knows you're here."

She said more, but Casey didn't quite hear.

Avery was alive. That was all that mattered, for now.

* * *

 

Sometime later, Avery roused enough to squeeze his mother's hand, and make brief eye contact with Casey. The nurse showed up a bit after that, and shoo'd him out, though she let Annette stay -- one person, she said, could stay with him.

He collected Shana from the waiting room and went home. There, he stumbled up the stairs, and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to think straight.

Avery was alive.

Avery was probably going to be okay.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

 

He woke around three AM with a cry of grief. He'd dreamed Avery was dead, sightless eyes staring at nothing on the floor of the Junk Shop ...

Shit.

He sat up in bed, knowing he would not get back to sleep. He checked his messages -- Annette had texted him to tell him Avery was resting comfortably.

It all seemed surreal.

He'd summoned an elf.

The elf had stabbed Avery.

The elf had disappeared from the cage, without explanation.

He suddenly jolted, with a rush of adrenalin and a spike of real fear, as he realized the elf was still out there. Where was the sword? Had the cops kept it? Would the elf come looking for it? What if the elf came after him? A butcher knife could be just as dangerous as a sword.

The creature had to be pissed off and angry.

Had he locked his door?

He stumbled to his feet to go check. The apartment door was locked.

What about the shop's main door, two floors downstairs? He remembered letting himself in the front door, but had he locked it after himself? He'd been so tired. The elf was out there, somewhere. Or ... or what if the creature had hidden in the shop somewhere? The Junk Shop was full of junk, with lots of hiding spaces for a five foot tall man.

Surely, the cops had searched it -- they'd been concerned that Avery had been attacked, hadn't they?

He didn't know.

He needed a weapon.

Heart pounding, he stepped out the door. The third-floor hallway was dark. He turned on turned on the lights, which consisted of a few bare bulbs hanging from wires -- this was an industrial space, never really meant for housing. The bulbs didn't seem to cast enough light,

His apartment took up half the third floor, giving him a thousand or so square feet of space, but multiple other rooms opened off the hall. They used the rooms for storage of their eBay inventory, and most of those doors were open, and the rooms beyond pitch black.

One room was full of sporting goods. He reached inside, skin crawling as he did. What if something grabbed his hand? But his fingers found the wall plate by the door, and snapped on the light. The room was crowded with long shelves full of items: balls, and nets, and rackets and snowshoes, backpacks and tents and sleeping bags and hiking boots.

He did not, unfortunately, have a baseball bat. He did have a set of nice golf clubs, and he selected one randomly from the pile. He swung it expirementally, wished it was a machete -- or better, a gun, and why hadn't he bought one before now? -- and then picked his way down the hall.

He was, he feared, being horror-movie stupid. At any moment, the elf, or some kind of slasher axe murderer, was going to lunge out of the shadows and kill him. Shana would find his corpse in the morning, cold and stiff, on the floor. She would be able to get into the Junk Shop because he was now certain he'd left the front door unlocked.

He remembered the life disappearing from Avery's eyes, and fought down nausea.

The second floor, a cavernous retail space with racks of clothing, shelves of books, and all the furniture that Avery had refurbished, was silent and empty. He turned the lights on, and walked the aisles, swishing clothing aside with the golf club. The elf had been small. He could have hidden under a rack of clothing, and never been noticed.

Casey, frightened by the thought of the elf hiding somewhere, paused to open the doors of an antique wardrobe, and then -- remembering just how small the man had been -- he bent over and lifted the lid on a large footlocker. There was nothing inside either.

The bathrooms were empty.

The changing rooms were empty.

He checked behind the display cases for the jewelry and small electronics, inside the broom closet, and between the second-hand mattresses that were stacked against one wall. Nothing. The building was silent.

There was an elevator to the first floor, installed for ADA compliance years before. He poked the button and then -- some half-forgotten slasher flick in mind -- he stood before the door with the golf club raised. No elf with a sword lurked inside, ready to lunge at him as soon as the door dinged open. It was empty.

The first floor was pitch black; he'd forgotten the light switches were nowhere near the elevator. He considered going back to the second floor, and coming down the back stairs, but decided against it. The elf was probably long gone, he told himself, and he was just being silly.

Still, the hair rose on the back of his neck as he felt his way across the room. There were a few racks of vintage t-shirts and designer jeans by the cash register. Then he tripped over a guitar on a stand, and banged his knee against an antique coffee table. The guitar hit the ground with a crash, and he yelped, and then he froze, expecting ... something.

Nothing.

Silence again.

He made his way to the light switches without further incident, snapped them on, and scanned the room. A mannequin by the work room double doors sent his pulse racing, but it was just a dummy wearing a vintage riding habit, not an elf.

Avery's blood was still on the floor.

In the work room, the toy trains and tracks were still scattered across the floor.

No elf.

He'd just convinced himself that the creature had fled -- or perhaps had never existed at all, but then, who had stabbed Avery? -- when he made one final scan of the workroom and adrenalin rushed through his veins and his heart jolted into a panicky gallop before his conscious brain even realized he'd seen someone standing there.

The elf.

The elf was ...

... still in the cage.

... the locked cage.

The little man looked paler and smaller than Casey remembered. His eyes were fiercely red and watery, and he was hugging himself. He stared at Casey, and Casey realized the man was shaking.

"Uh," Casey said.

Silence, from the elf.

"I thought you got out."

The elf said, voice flat, "I hid from your soldiers."

"... where?" The cage had a desk, the chest that the book had been in, a safe, and a cabinet that held financial records ... a cabinet, Casey realized, that had an empty bottom shelf just big enough for a small and flexible man to squeeze himself into.

The elf was still shaking. He looked positively ill. He said nothing, just stared at Casey with enormous green eyes as if he was waiting for his own execution. And perhaps he was, for his next words were, "Know that I will find a way to kill you someday for this."

"I got that memo." Casey walked closer to the cage. At this range, he could smell the man: body odor, fear, and the acrid and eye-watering smell of pepper spray. The elf was filthy, scrawny under his mail shirt, and his eyes were swollen nearly shut.

The elf licked his chapped lips, but did not retreat. He simply waited, shivering, as Casey came loser.

"I'm not sorry," the elf said, chin jerking up. "I'm not sorry I killed your friend. I'll kill you too."

"He's not dead," Casey said, slapping a hand against the wire grating between them. To his disappointment, the little man didn't jump. "No thanks to you."

"What did you expect? You summoned me and enslaved me!" The elf snarled -- and then visibly winced. "Damn you, and damn your geas and I will kill you ..."

And then, the little man's eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Casey hesitated, but all his own fear seemed to have evaporated. The elf just didn't look dangerous. He looked sick, underfed, and terrified, not scary. His sword was ... somewhere else, Casey wasn't sure where ... and despite his threats of murder and mayhem, he'd just fainted.

After a moment's long hesitation, Casey unlocked the door. The elf didn't move until he knelt beside him. He smelled truly awful; Casey tried not to breath as he rested fingers against the man's throat.

He had a pulse, and his eyes flickered and then opened. The elf froze, motionless, staring at Casey with green blood-shot eyes. Snot ran from his nose. Belatedly, Casey realized the man was still suffering the effects of the pepper spray. There was no water in the cage.

"Can you get up?" Casey asked, and surprised himself by how calm he sounded.

"... Yes." The elf bit out, angry and bitter sounding. He flinched away from Casey's hand, and then pushed himself into a sitting position.

"Why'd you faint."

"The geas punishes disobedience."

"Geas?"

"The geas you cast upon me, wizard." The man spat. "I cannot threaten you without pain. Know this, though -- I will be free someday, and I will kill ..."

He went pale, jaw clenched, with two bright spots of color on his fair cheeks.

"Stop threatening me, then," Casey said, impatiently. He'd summoned an elf -- and the man was obviously not human, with his high cheekbones and pointed ears and too-large green eyes. Had he somehow also put a spell of compulsion on the man?

The elf fell silent.

Casey resisted the temptation to tell him to do something silly, like to tapdance around the room. Instead, he said quietly, "I didn't mean this. Any of it. I didn't mean to summon you -- or enslave you, apparently -- and I didn't mean for Avery to get hurt. He's my best friend."

The elf said something.

"You must believe me."

The elf jerked in place, eyes widening, and then with his jaw set, he said, "Very well. I believe you. Master."

"Don't call me that." Casey wondered at the sarcasm he heard in the elf's voice.

"What do you wish to be called?" Still snarky.

"My name is Casey. What's yours?"

"Siomon." Sullen, now.

"Okay, Siomon. I don't believe in geas, but I don't believe in elves either ... look, just be nice, don't hurt anyone else, and I'll figure out how to send you home as soon as I can. I promise."

"Do that," the elf allowed, "and I might not kill you after all."

"It's a deal." Casey offered him a hand up.

The elf stared at Casey's fingers as if not recognizing what they were for, and then suddenly seized them. His hands were heavily callused, but he weighed very little -- and a good twenty pounds of that was the hauberk, the mail shirt, that he was wearing.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up." Casey said.

"Cleaned ... up?"

"You stink, man, and I bet a shower would help get the crap out of your eyes."

"You intend to allow me to bathe."

Casey was still trying very hard not to breathe too much. The man smelled like distilled locker room, dumpster, and three-day-old roadkill, all rolled into one. "Yeah, I intend to make you bathe, actually. Am I going to need to force you?"

The elf snorted. "The only force necessary would be that which would be required to keep me away from clean water and soap, at this point. I'm not even sure your geas could stop me."

"What have you been doing, anyway?"

That prompted a tired sigh. "Fleeing. Before the bath, however -- where am I to relieve myself? I've been locked up for a considerable amount of time, and there was no bucket."

 

Right ... first things first. He nodded, and turned, and led the elf upstairs towards his own apartment.

There was an elf in his shop.

An  _elf_. 

He tried not to think too hard about any of this.


End file.
